Before We Visit the Goddess (26 page)

I was concerned that Lance would be angered by my reply. That he would cancel Mrs. Dewan's gig. Some men would have done it. But he said, “I'll check again in a couple weeks. Maybe you'll feel different by then.”

At noon on Saturday, Mrs. Dewan gave her first demonstration. I had put up flyers in the bookstore and told my coworkers, and Lance had placed announcement boards around the store. About fifteen people showed up—better than I had expected. When Mrs. Dewan emerged from the back, wearing an apron and chef's cap, she looked terrified. She stumbled over her words as she explained the dish she was cooking: chicken tikka masala. Her hand shook when she held up the bottled sauce she was using. Her accent was heavier than usual. She would not make eye contact. Things improved a bit when she began to sauté the chicken and no longer had to look at her audience. She dished the pieces into little paper cups and speared them efficiently with toothpicks. But when customers crowded around her with compliments and questions, she lost her nerve and fled to the storage area. Lance had to take over and guide people to the aisles where they could buy the ingredients she had used.

There was an event that night at the bookstore, so I had turned off my cell phone. When I turned it back on, I discovered that Mrs. Dewan had called several times. She had not spoken, though I could hear her breathing above the static. I found this troubling.

Told you
, said the David-voice.

Technically, since she had not left a message, I was not obliged to call her back. At midnight I gave in and phoned.

“I am a failure,” she said, in the slow, formal intonation of the inebriated. “I have let you down. Lance says I must improve my customer interaction skills.”

“Please go to sleep,” I said, though I knew the futility of such advice. “We can discuss this later. I'm sure we can come up with a strategy.”

“I've never cooked from a bottle.” She was weeping now. “And chicken tikka—why, it's not even real Indian.”

I did not fully understand her grief, but I said, “Let's talk tomorrow when our brains are clearer.” I was pleased at my reasonable tone because David had sometimes claimed that I was an unreasonable man.

As I was falling into sleep, it struck me, the shameful answer to Lance's unspoken question. Mrs. Dewan was important to me because she was worse off than I was. I found it easy to be reasonable with her because her life made me feel less wretched about my own.

Over the week, Mrs. Dewan and I went over her demonstration, discussing what she did well and what needed improvement. We came up with a list of recipes that were authentic enough for her and easy enough for her audience. She practiced answering questions. She practiced accepting compliments. She practiced smiling. She watched chefs perform flashy moves on my TV and tried a couple of them herself. She did better the next weekend, and when I took a photo of her, she managed a smile. She was still timid about speaking to strangers, but there was no mistaking her talent. People loved her shrimp in coconut-milk gravy. Perhaps they responded to her shyness, too. To the fact that this was not easy for her. Afterward, they bought so many items that Lance decided to give Mrs. Dewan two sets of cooking gigs on Saturdays, and the same on Sundays. A couple of weeks later, reconnoitering again, I was pleased to see that her kitchen shelves were not as empty as before.

Lance and I went out one weekend. He came by the apartment to pick me up. On our way downstairs, we ran into Mrs. Dewan. She was on the small balcony next to the staircase landing. She liked to stand there in the evening, watching people return home. We exchanged greetings. She asked where we were going and nodded knowledgeably when I mentioned the name of the restaurant, though I was sure she had not heard of it. As we were about to get into our car, she leaned out from the balcony and shouted, “Have a good time, boys.”

“Is she always this nosy?” Lance asked. “That would drive me crazy.”

I considered the question. Mrs. Dewan and I had fallen into the habit of chatting on the phone every night. During these conversations, she told me about her day and asked, with great interest, about mine. I quite liked these nightly exchanges. I did not have anyone else who considered the details of my humdrum life worth such attention.

I could not tell this to Lance. “I don't mind it,” I said.

“You're a good man, Ken,” he said.

I accepted the compliment. It was easier than trying to explain.

We had an enjoyable time at dinner. Lance was funny, which I had known, but smarter than I had expected, more worldly. He told me about his backpacking adventures in Slovenia this past summer. “Maybe we can go together next time,” he said.

My stomach gave a small lurch, part from excitement and part at the thought of strange Slovenian foods, blood sausages and whatnot. “That sounds great,” I said.

Later we went for a walk along Town Lake. The setting sun had turned the water orange-pink. In the distance we could see the Austin skyline, and against it, the colonies of bats that had emerged from under the bridges. I had not been out in nature in a long time. David was more the museums-movies-clubs type. The bats milled around. I told Lance that they looked like tangled skeins of black silk. It was a poor analogy, but he laughed and said, “Why, Ken, you're a poet.” Then he kissed me.

All of a sudden, my head was full of David. David rubbing my calf after I had pulled a muscle jogging, David cooking for us, holding up a forkful of fettuccine for me to taste, David reading out to me from
A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius
, dissolving in laughter before he reached the end of a funny passage. I pulled away. I couldn't help it, though I was angry with my stupidity. Lance's face went dark. It stayed that way even after I apologized and he said he understood. That was the end of the evening.

One night, after our weekly dinner, Mrs. Dewan said, “Kenneth, I want to show you something.” She ripped the tape off a box in the corner and took out a package wrapped in a fine white woolen shawl. When she shook it out, I saw that it was a beautiful silk costume, long and skirtlike, red with a gold border and a fitted blouse.

“It's my dance costume,” she said. “I couldn't bring much from India when I came to this country—I ran away from home with just a suitcase. But I made sure to bring this.” She held up ankle bells on long cords. There were a lot of bells because she had studied dance for many years. “I used to love dancing. I was good at both Kathak and Rabindra Nritya. I performed in front of hundreds of people. Me. Can you imagine? When the auditorium went dark and the spotlight was focused on me, I felt a thrill like I've never felt since. Moving to the beat of the tabla, I forgot my life.” She gave a sigh. “I'd love to wear it again, to dance so I can forget like that, even for a few minutes. But I can't fit into it anymore.” She pinched at the flab of her underarm, making a face.

An excitement blazed through me. Perhaps all of us have a bit of Pygmalion in us. “You can do it,” I said. “We'll make a plan.”

Our plan progressed well. Mrs. Dewan went for walks, morning and evening. She cut out carbs and fats from her diet, including the donuts she was so fond of. Her dinners grew innovative, though no less delicious: quinoa upma, rutis made from chickpea flour, grilled masala chicken wrapped in lettuce leaf, mango glacé topped with rose petals.

“You should write a cookbook,” I said. “You're so good, I bet you'd be a hit. I know a couple of publishers who might be interested. Would you like me to introduce you?”

She had a considering look on her face. “Maybe.”

“You could start with a blog. I write one for our bookstore. It isn't difficult. I'll set it up for you. You can call it
Bela's Kitchen
.”

She laughed. “
Bela's Kitchen
. I like that.” She extended her glass. “Could you please pour me another?”

I obliged. Today our drink, which I had made, was a frothy lassi with crushed pomegranate seeds. Mrs. Dewan was making a serious effort to give up alcohol. She announced that she had lost two inches from around her waist in two weeks.

“You're doing great,” I said. “I'm proud of you.” I meant it.

“Now if only I could find you a girlfriend,” she said, “things would be perfect.”

I stared at her, dismayed. I supposed I sometimes passed, but I had assumed that she would know about me from my comb-over fade, my red Converses. From seeing Lance's arm around my shoulders when we went out. Now I saw that despite her years in this country, she wasn't familiar enough with America to pick up on the signs. I knew I should tell her, but I couldn't bear to. I didn't want to see on her the look that had taken over my parents' faces. I didn't want to lose her.

“Sorry, sorry,” Mrs. Dewan said, laughing. “I'm being a nosy auntie, just like those neighbor women who used to drive me crazy when I was a girl. I won't bring it up again.”

It had been a harrying day. Our store had booked a bestselling author and hired a large theater venue. The author, who was to arrive next week, was notorious for being temperamental. I had been fielding calls all day from his publicist about the items he required during his visit. No music in the car. Water: only Evian, with the limes cut open in front of him. For dinner before the event, Thai food, authentic but mild. He did not like air-conditioning. It made his eyes dry out.